Tommy rode as fast as the horse could go. He patted and encouraged Clover to move quickly, every contraction and release of her muscles as she pushed through the weather told Tommy she understood. He reached the boardinghouse just as the sun was rising. He watered Clover and wrapped his arms around her neck. He limped toward the entry to the boardinghouse. The snow had slowed his progress, freezing his feet as the stirrups brushed over cold piles of rising snow.
The boardinghouse wife sent a young boy to tend to Clover and helped Tommy into the house, insisting he stay to eat. They listened to his story, enraptured with every detail. Again, Tommy obscured information that would hurt his family or threaten their freedom if his hosts decided to reveal any of it to the authorities.
When he finished the steak and eggs, the wife insisted he get out of his clothes so she could dry his stockings and shoes by the fire. She gave over the bed at the back of the house where the husband sometimes slept when they needed security with rowdy guests.
Tommy protested, wondering if he would owe them more than he already did, if they might have created a ruse of kindness to trick him out of his . . . his what? His ratty clothing? He jammed his hands in his pockets and pulled out the Indian Head, rubbing it, then looked at the mother-of-pearl cross. They were the only items of value he had, and that was hardly something worth stealing.
The wife covered him with a down blanket, wrapping him tight to keep the warm air in. “Just for a minute. Then I have to go.”
He woke as the winter sun was setting on a gray day. Was it setting or rising? Disoriented, he pieced together the events of the last day and panicked, knowing his family had no idea where he’d been. He had no idea how Katherine was, and the fear that she might have worsened settled in deep.
He stood as the wife entered holding his stockings and pants.
“Thought I heard you rustling.”
The husband followed with a cup of coffee. “Drink this before you set out. Looks like some good paths have been cut through the snow. You should get home without much trouble.”
Tommy looked at them, overwhelmed with gratitude. “Thank you for all of this. I don’t know how to thank you. All this kindness. I’ll repay you. I will.”
The husband shook his head. “Not required.”
The wife handed him the stockings.
Tommy’s eyes stung at the thought of them just giving, not requiring, not demanding, not asking for a thing. “Like you’re angels in the flesh, earth angels or something.”
“Wouldn’t that be something, Tommy? Angels in the flesh,” the husband said, setting the mug of coffee on the table near the fireplace. “Drink that up. I’ve got chores.”
Tommy dressed and drank a few sips of the coffee before setting out on his way. Back by the front desk, he stopped to say good-bye to his benefactors. A couple entered the foyer and went upstairs, heads bowed in private conversation.
Tommy rang the bell on the counter, but no one came. He couldn’t imagine leaving without thanking them again. But when minutes stretched on and there was no sign of them, he simply said thank you into the air.
He reached into his pocket. He had to have something to give them. He pulled out the mother-of-pearl cross and his lucky penny. If he left the penny, they wouldn’t understand that it was lucky, and they’d spend it and the luck would be gone, spinning out into the world, with no one to recognize its worth. He pushed that back into his pocket.
He set the cross on the guestbook, knowing they’d see it, knowing it was from someone who appreciated them more than words could say.